


Let the Temptation Flow (Through You)

by GreyMoth



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Getting Together, Grinding, Humor, M/M, Social drinking, Stony Bingo 2017, Undercover Missions, undercover at a gay bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 03:35:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13091580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMoth/pseuds/GreyMoth
Summary: When Tony sees the file on the counter about missing people he doesn't think anything of it, until he learns that it's for Steve. And that the place people are going missing is a gay bar.Steve is definitely going to need back-up, right? Okay, he probably doesn't but there is no way Tony is going to pass this up.





	Let the Temptation Flow (Through You)

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my beta reader, Atsadi, who has been my sun, my moon, and my guiding north star. I could not have done this without her.
> 
> All mistakes are my own.

There’s a file sitting innocuously on the breakfast counter when Tony staggers into the kitchen.

He bypasses it at first, with sleep still weighing down his eyes and the scent of coffee the only reason he’s putting one foot in front of the other. It takes some fumbling and a close call with an open cupboard door before he’s taking the first heavenly sip of his own brew. Dark and rich, with enough bite that Pepper once claimed it could take the paint off of the walls. Which is a ridiculous claim, even if Clint is the only one is willing to drink any of the coffee Tony makes.

The file is still there when Tony starts to feel a bit more alive. It’s an unspoken rule that anything left lying around is fair game for prying eyes and bored minds, meaning morning newspapers have become a scarce commodity after the appearance of the first couple of files.

“Good reading?” Natasha asks when he’s about half-way through, coming into the kitchen and looking way too put-together for someone in a housecoat and ratty slippers.

Tony grins and watches her make her way around the kitchen. “It’s amazing the amount of mystery and intrigue they  manage to _not_ put in super-classified mission parameters. This one yours?”

Natasha sets down a fresh pot of coffee and sits beside him, plucking the file from his hands to curiously flip through it. “Don’t think so. Clint and I are heading out for some recon tomorrow. There’s some stirrings in Latveria that Fury wants us to check out, and this looks local.”

“Incoming Bar,” Tony wonders aloud, filling up his mug again. “JARVIS?”

“It’s a gay bar on 12th and Atwood with an average of 3.5 stars on Yelp,” JARVIS speaks up. “Recently it has been appearing in both police reports and the media in connection to five missing persons cases.”

Missing people? With Natasha and Clint out of the running that just leaves Cap. Which means—holy shit. Tony jolts upright. "Holy shit. It's a Cap thing."

Natasha is staring at him warily and if she were anyone else, Tony would say that she’s edging towards the door. He’s been told that his smiles can be diabolical at times, and he’d be willing to bet that right now is one of those instances, but he doesn’t care. This is too good to be distracted from. Has Steve ever been to a gay bar? Does he know they exist? There is no way Tony is going to miss seeing Steve try to blend in with guys grinding on the dance floor. It’s got to be like painting an elephant pink, pushing it into a pond, and telling it to be an octopus.

He’s too busy cackling to notice Steve come in until he hears “What's a Cap thing?” from behind him. It’s too good; Tony turns so that he can watch Steve’s face when he sees the file, but as soon as he sees him his laughter immediately gives way to shock.

“Wow, Cap. Grizzly Adams called and he wants his beard back.”

Steve gets a pained look. “Not you too. Sam’s been making cracks about it all morning.”

“Tony’s just jealous,” Natasha says with a smirk. “He’s not allowed to grow a full beard for PR reasons. The last time he did, he wasn’t let into a fundraiser because security thought he was a hobo.”

Tony gasps in mock outrage. “Lies and slander,” he tells Steve with a sniff, pointedly ignoring Natasha. “She has no idea what she’s talking about.”

“Of course, Tony,” Steve says serenely.

Tony stares hard at him. Steve stares innocently back.

“We need to work on your lying,” Tony informs him, before going back to his coffee. Beautiful, loving, kind coffee that doesn't sass him for no reason.

Natasha starts poking his leg gently with her toes, which he tries to ignore as she talks to Steve. “Welcome back, by the way. How was your vacation?”

“In a word? Cold. It was two weeks of cold, wind, and snow, but it really helped me put a few things into perspective,” Steve replies, hooking his thumbs over his belt buckle and relaxing into what Tony fondly calls The Patriotic Power Stance. It kind of reminds him of old Western gunslingers, and isn’t that a thought for him to revisit later.

Although Steve’s attention and focus is on Natasha, Tony catches a quick glance in his direction that immediately sets him on edge. He takes a sip of his coffee and squints between the two of them as they have their silent conversation. Annoyance is simmering in the back of his mind, and—to make matters even worse—Natasha is now wearing that secret smile of hers that drives him nuts. The one that tells him yes, they're definitely talking about him, and no, they don't plan on sharing.

Steve sits on Tony’s other side and leans around him to talk to Natasha. “What do you think? I’ve never been to a gay bar before—”

“Dibs!” Tony cuts in, before quickly cupping his hand under his chin to catch the coffee that spills from his mouth. “Wait, ouch, fuck, that’s hot.”

“You can feel that with your hands but not in your mouth?” Steve asks, looking momentarily sidetracked.

“That's what she said,” Tony crows, jabbing at Steve’s side with his finger. Steve doesn't even flinch, just swats at him while Tony laughs at his disdainful expression.

“Boys, focus," Natasha scolds even though she clearly wants to laugh. Or, at least Tony thinks she does. "Tony, you’re way too high-profile for this. You're both too high-profile for this.” She's frowning as she hands the file over to Steve. “Why’d they choose you?”

“Fury thinks I could use some experience in going undercover,” Steve says dryly.

Tony coughs, ignores Steve’s unimpressed look, and taps a sequence into the countertop to start up the built-in computer system. A few more seconds and he’s in SHIELD’s files and making a few ‘minor’ alterations. Steve and Natasha both ignore him, so used to his random bursts of inspiration that they talk over him as he types away.

Natasha shrugs. “You’re usually good for the first few minutes, but after that I can see where he’s coming from." She brushes some hair back behind her ear, and rests her chin on her hand. "Who’s your backup?”

“Yes, JARVIS, dear, who is Steve’s backup?” Tony asks, sitting back with a smug yet satisfied smile once he’s erased his tracks. A few seconds off his best time, even after SHIELD _attempted_ a system upgrade. Not bad, if he may say so himself.

Steve is already staring at him in horrified fascination. Natasha looks reluctantly impressed.

JARVIS, meanwhile, just sounds resigned. “It appears that the file has been updated under Director Fury’s credentials to name a Special Agent Stark as Captain Rogers’s backup. And Sir, in what I’m certain is an unrelated development, Director Fury is on the Avengers’ line.”

Tony swipes over the countertop to shut everything down. “Must be for you guys, to go over your super secret missions.”

“I’m afraid he is asking for you directly, Sir.”

Natasha laughs and heads to put her coffee mug in the sink, while Steve just shakes his head and grins. Tony glares at both of them, snatching the file from Steve’s loose grip. “No respect in this house. Tell him I’m busy, J. I’ve got meetings today, right? Lots of meetings, I’m completely booked all day. I’m even booked this evening, got a hot date at a gay bar.”

Steve makes a sound like he's choking and immediately starts coughing. Tony, in an act of pure altruism, uses it as an excuse to give him a few pats on the back. The patting may change to something that could be defined as rubbing or stroking, but Steve isn’t saying anything and Tony would deny it anyway.

“Director Fury has asked that you check your email sometime in-between the many meetings you suddenly have. I have taken the initiative to review what he sent, and it appears to be a digital copy of SHIELD’s ‘Sexual Misconduct’ and ‘Workplace Harassment’ handbooks.”

“Tell him thanks but no thanks. Stark Industries already has their own manuals, and we don’t want to be accused of plagiarism.”

“Of course, Sir. I’m sure Ms. Potts will be very happy to know that you are suddenly so keen on taking steps to not get sued.”

Tony nods firmly, the familiar feeling of fondness that he has for JARVIS sitting warm in his chest, even while he keeps a straight face. “Exactly. You’re learning well, JARVIS.” Fury all sorted, he turns back to the far more important matter at hand. “Now, Steve, what are you wearing?”

“A t-shirt and track pants,” Steve’s voice says from over where he’s rummaging around in the fridge. Natasha has set out some mugs and is busy putting out tea while the electric kettle  bubbles on the counter.

“Not the most conventional of bar attire, but you can make it work. Actually, I like it. Keep it commando and—”

“It’s too early to be talking about Steve’s junk,” Clint cuts in, bleary-eyed and stumbling like a drunkard into the kitchen. He is twice as dangerous and three more times likely to stab someone before his morning coffee than even Tony, so the wise thing to do would be to drop it.

Instead, Tony opens his mouth and gets ready to completely traumatize Clint—but once again Natasha ruins his fun: “Get some glasses, hunch a bit, and dress down. This isn’t one of those places where everyone wears mesh tops and leather pants, so it’s best to leave them in your closet.”

“And here I thought I was finally going to get some use out of them,” Steve deadpans, hip-checking the fridge door closed and setting himself up at the counter with a carton of eggs and various other obscenely healthy-looking things.

“We’ll save them for another weekend. Tony, you’re going to have to shave the beard if you’re serious about this.”

Tony snaps out of his gleeful imaginings of Steve in a mesh top with those abs on display to glare at her in disapproval. This is just the kind of dirty, underhanded trick Natasha uses to con unsuspecting innocents into making fools of themselves. But two can play this game, so he sniffs, “It’s like you don’t even know me. Unlike the Chuck Norris wannabe over there, I can grow this back in a day or two.”

“Sure thing, Chewbacca. You may also want to dye your hair,” Clint joins in, much to Tony’s delight and consternation. It's a fair suggestion; Tony rewards this pre-coffee forward-thinking by going to the pantry and grabbing a rice cracker to offer him. Clint takes the dismal offering with a bow of his head and immediately dunks it into his coffee.

Tony’s been there. He watches Clint and tries to project sympathy.

“I feel like I’m walking in on the wrong part of this conversation,” Bruce says, maneuvering artfully around everyone to get to the tea kettle.

“Nah, that was earlier when Tony was talking about Steve’s dick,” Clint tells him seriously. “Now I’m just trying to convince Tony that blondes have more fun.”

“Captain Cranky Pants over there proves otherwise,” Tony says, pointing to Steve before a stalk of celery comes flying from Steve’s direction, hits him in the shoulder, and falls onto his lap. The last time he had eaten celery was with a Bloody Mary and he’d hated it, but that doesn’t stop him from biting into it aggressively.

“You’re not exactly subtle, Tony,” Steve says. “Hell, your face is plastered on every second store window. There’s no way you’re going to last even ten minutes undercover.”

That sounds like a challenge, and Tony perks up while everyone else stares at Steve in exasperation. Joke’s on them: Tony is a genius and he has _plans_. He’s already grinning wildly when he sees the moment it clicks in Steve’s mind that he said something wrong.

“Fuck, Tony, no, don't—“

It’s too late. It was too late the moment Steve decided to leave the file out for Natasha to look over without considering the possibility that Tony would also be awake this early in the morning. Tony is already standing up and making a bee-line for his workshop even before Steve starts backpedaling.

“See you tonight! And just so you know, if I have to shave you'd better show some skin,” he calls over his shoulder, then bursts out laughing when he hears Clint say loud enough to reach the elevator:

“He means you should wear your birthday suit, Steve.”

 

***

 

Tony suspects a conspiracy between Fury and Pepper when he finds out that that he really does have meetings scheduled all day. It isn’t until early evening that he’s closing down his StarkTab after his last conference call and is finally able to focus on his ‘Plans’.

Grabbing his phone, he shoots off a text to Pepper then heads into his bathroom.

After some hair bleach and a quick shave that leaves his face disconcertingly bare, Tony is left staring at himself in the bathroom mirror. There’s a feeling of disconnect seeping into his veins, a feeling that he takes with pride. Natasha is going to have to eat her words when she sees him; he’s got this undercover thing down.

Dodging the third call in a row from Pepper, Tony pokes around in his closet until he finds some old jeans with minimal motor oil stains and starts looking for a shirt. The hangers click together with growing intensity as shirt after shirt is rejected. “Do I own nothing but blacks and greys? Why do I have nothing but black and grey… and a cat shirt. Okay, the cat shirt can stay, but where are all the colours? JARVIS, who buys my wardrobe, this is ridiculous.”

“I believe that all of your ‘colour’ shirts ran amiss with your lab, Sir.”

That would explain it, Tony decides. He opts to leave the shirt for now and is changing into jeans when the idea comes to him. It appeals to a primal part of his brain, the part that relishes in subtle claims and issuing challenges.

“JARVIS, is Steve still in his room? Can you ask him to bring something down?”

Tony’s sorted out his footwear and put a special covering over the arc reactor to hide the soft blue light by the time JARVIS replies. “Captain Rogers says he has something that may fit and asks if he should bring it to your room.”

“Tell him I’ll meet him downstairs,” Tony decides, running his fingers over the edge of the arc reactor. He hates blocking it out, has become so used to the comforting glow that the absence of its light is making his breath catch in his throat. For all the teasing, shaving his beard and dyeing his hair are nothing compared to the black hole in his chest.

A knock at the door breaks him from his thoughts; he taps the arc reactor gently before going to the door and flinging it open dramatically. The look on Pepper’s face as she stares at him is gratifying enough that he poses in the doorway until she gathers herself.

“Do I want to know?” she asks while waiting for him to step aside and beckon her in.

“Yes.” He grins at her and instead steps out to lead her down the hall.

“Tony-speak for ‘my health depends on me not knowing’. Just tell me how much damage control I’m going to be doing tomorrow.”

Succinct and to the point as always, which is one of the reasons Tony loves her. “No damage control if all goes well,” he says, making grabby hands at her bag until she rolls her eyes and hands it over. Tony wastes no time before digging in. “Steve and I are going undercover, so I need to be less—” He pauses and squints at a bottle of concealer. “—less me.”

“Tony,” Pepper sighs, reaching over to switch out the concealer for something that calls itself ‘juice beauty’. Tony opens it one-handed and sniffs it experimentally. “I have seen you do many things that people say can’t be done, but I have never heard anything more impossible in my life.”

She takes back the tube of whatever-it-is along with the bag.

“That’s rude,” he informs her, and continues before it gets obvious that she still doesn’t have enough manners to apologize for sassing him. “I’ve been working on the schematics for a mesh that will change your facial features into whatever you want, but it’s all theoretical until I can order the material and get into the lab. There wasn't enough time today.” After a few moments he admits, “This is a backup plan.”

“Backup plan number five, right?” Pepper asks as they get to the common room where Clint and Natasha are talking quietly at the bar.

“Number two, actually. I had a few others, but JARVIS told me they were a bit excessive.”

Pepper shakes her head. “Tony, when have your plans ever _not_ been ex—”

Clint’s wolf-whistle distracts them, and Natasha raises a shot glass with a grin. “Looking good, Stark.”

“Feeling good, Ms. Romanoff.” Tony takes a shot glass from the neat row set out in front of her and throws it back. There is a sense of immediate regret it when it burns like black ice all the way down and sets him sputtering. “What is this?!”

Natasha taps the side of her nose, eyes mischievous, while Clint laughs and holds up a beer. “That’s why Nat always goes last for picking the shots.”

Tony takes in the newfound wisdom. “Right. Clint, you’re up then. Don’t make me regret this.”

Clint pushes himself up and heads to the fridge.

Pepper takes a shot herself, shudders, then steers Tony over towards the couch and pushes on his shoulder until he sits down. This is all done with a facial expression he doesn’t think he warrants. There’s too much skepticism in it.

“I really don’t want to know what the other backup plans were,” she tells him. “Just, don’t expect the makeup to work miracles. There’s only so much it can change, and I’m not exactly trained for espionage.”

Tony snorts. She’s not giving herself nearly enough credit for her sneaky behind-the-scenes work.

Natasha is watching them with interest and comes over to observe Pepper setting things up. “You’d be be amazed at what a bit of contouring and eyeliner can do. Want some help?”

“Sure,” Pepper tells her, and Tony looks over at Clint with sudden fear.

Clint shrugs back and taps an extra beer bottle beside him. Tony beckons for it, but Clint is an asshole. A smart asshole who knows not to get in between Natasha and Pepper and whatever is in their focus.

“Hold still,” Pepper chides after what felt like an eternity of him and Clint silently arguing while he’s poked and prodded with brushes. It can’t have been more than five minutes real time, but it feels like his hair should be grey and his skin withered with old age.

“I need you to look down... Good, now look up.” he’s told while Natasha tilts his face towards her with cold fingers. It’s a fight not to flinch away, and he mostly succeeds, but after a while his leg gets jittery. Then his fingers start to tap against the couch as he tries to distract himself with planning upgrades—which doesn’t work very well because he needs to write everything down, goddamnit.

Pepper must notice the fidgeting, and she draws back to stare at him for a second. “Take this and keep your head still,” she says as she hands him a StarkTab from the side table.

“What did I ever do before you?” he asks her, hugging the StarkTab to his chest.

“Fumbled about and made a huge mess. Just a little bit more...”

“How much is a little bit?” Tony says, full of skepticism. In Pepper’s world ‘a little bit’ can mean anywhere between two minutes and several days.

“We’re almost done,” Natasha assures him, this time keeping him still so that he doesn’t turn directly into the path of some sort of pencil. Having so many pointy things near his eyes is nerve wracking, and his heel starts tapping against the floor again.

To distract himself, he logs into the StarkPad to bring up a few designs from R&D, only to hear the blessed words:

“Okay, you’re done.”

Tony stares at Pepper as she packs up, completely baffled. “What was the point of handing me the tablet?”

“You sit better when you feel like you can fidget. Go look yourself over and get ready for your date night with Steve. I’m going to go get the bail money ready.”

Tony gawks while Clint laughs at him in the background.

“Do you want to stay for shots?” Natasha asks Pepper, gesturing back towards the bar.

“I would love to, but I have a business dinner that I can’t postpone.”

“Thanks, Pep!” Tony butts in quickly, tosses the tablet onto the couch, and slips away from their conversation. Pepper smiles and waves before she’s back to planning a girls’ night with Natasha, or at least that’s what Tony suspects. Calendars are involved.

“Any news on Bruce and Thor, JARVIS?” Tony asks, sitting down beside Clint and clutching his beer like a lifeline.

“Dr. Banner is just leaving for some previously-arranged plans and sends his regrets. Mister Odinson sends his regards and regrets as well. He says he’s promised his evening to Jane Foster and Eric Selvig.”

“Well shit, that's a science sandwich I want to be part of,” Tony says, and has scramble to avoid a sharp elbow to the ribs. “Hey! Just because you can’t appreciate big brains doesn’t mean no one else does.”

Clint scoffs at him, but something catches his attention before he can respond.

“I know I said you were recognizable, but if you go like that then no one will even bother looking at your face,” Steve says, and Tony quickly wheels around to find him approaching with a mischievous grin. “I brought you a shirt just in case you get cold, Mr. Playboy.”

“Holy shit, what are you wearing? Did you paint that on?” he asks incredulously, shaking sloshed beer from his hand. “You better not have hired someone, because I would have done it for free.”

Tony is not expecting the backhanded swat Steve gives his flank, nor the shirt that plops down on his shoulder.

“Just get dressed, Tony.” Steve sits down beside him and grabs a shot, his shirt straining around his biceps. “Your reaction time is slow, maybe you should go back to that gym for a bit.”

“I can think of a better way to work on my reaction time,” Tony purrs, not able to resist teasing back. God, the v-neck on Steve’s shirt should be illegal. It has to fall somewhere in the realm of publicly indecent along with the dark jeans Steve has dug up from somewhere. They aren’t just tight, they are perfectly tailored to show the raw power of Steve’s muscles and emphasize his assets.

No, Tony decides after a moment of looking Steve up and down. Not emphasize. ‘Showcase’ would be a better word. Emphasizing is not needed here.

There’s always just a bit more colour on the back of Steve’s neck—and now Tony can confirm that it starts on his chest as well—when Tony outright flirts with him. Sometimes it will even creep further up until Steve’s normally pale complexion is flushed. Those are the moments when Tony dares to hope, just a little bit, that Steve is aware that the teasing is all a cover for how serious he is.

It doesn’t, however, stop him from worrying that Steve is awkwardly pretending that he’s clueless as a way to let Tony down easy.

“I can think of a better way, too,” Steve says in a thick honeyed rumble that travels from Tony’s ears through to his core. It vanishes the moment Steve continues in a normal tone, “You should start playing Galaga.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Tony blurts out while Clint reaches around him to Steve for a fistbump. “I build you a state-of-the-art training room and you think _Galaga_ is better?”

“Well," Steve starts, but all three of them are distracted by the sound of a fake camera shutter going off.

“Whoops, forgot I had my volume on,” Natasha tells them.

Tony stares at her with narrowed eyes. “My body is not for open source consumption. JARVIS, delete any evidence of this off of her phone. Otherwise, I want the royalties.”

“The privacy controls you installed prevent me from telling you her activity, Sir,” JARVIS says, and Tony slumps forward and sighs dramatically to showcase his suffering. Betrayed by his own creation.

“What makes you think I want any of this on my phone?” Natasha asks.

“Because I’m shirtless and Steve is dressed like a hooker. Who wouldn’t want photographs?” Tony wiggles his eyebrows at her with a cheesy leer on his face. It turns into a frown of outrage when Clint snickers.

“That's nothing special. Face it, Tony, you’re not the best for keeping your clothes on, and Cap has an entire website dedicated to his butt in jogging pants.”

Steve makes a strangled noise that Tony ignores to sit up straight and reach for his phone. “Don’t be lying to me now, Barton. Oh, look! They have a picture of those running shorts from when we were having a heat wave. Good times.” Tony stares at the picture before saving it.

“I am going to burn those shorts,” Steve tells them.

Tony pats Steve’s thigh in a way he hopes is soothing, because he really can’t find it within himself to be sympathetic. Not when The Shorts are on the line. It’s also an excuse to touch a little bit more... He’s never claimed to be saint, okay. “Waste not, Cap. Keep them for around the tower.”

The side eye Steve is giving him does nothing to calm the laughter in his chest or dim the smile that he can’t fight back.

“Okay, more shots for everyone and then you two need to leave so Clint and I can get to bed,” Natasha says, coming back around the bar. “Tony, put your shirt on, or else you may as well kiss your newfound interest in undercover work goodbye.”

It’s fair advice. Tony yanks the shirt over his head and tugs it down. It’s a bit big, completely stretched out across the chest, shoulders, and in the sleeves, but just bordering on tight around the hips.

There’s also a star right over where Tony’s arc reactor is.

“You brought me Captain America merch?” he asks in disbelief, pulling at the shirt so that he can see it better. It’s gently worn out and slightly wrinkled, carrying Steve’s clean scent instead of laundry detergent. “You brought me Captain America merch that you’ve been _wearing_?”

“If you don’t like it—” Steve starts, but Tony cuts him off.

“Nope, no take-backs. It’s mine now. Bring on the shots,” he demands regally, then promptly chokes on whatever it is that Natasha sets down in front of him. “I swear, Draino would go down easier than this.”

Steve chuckles from beside him and downs the shot without a flinch, the moonshine-swigging bastard. “It’s pretty bitter, but not so bad once you’ve swallowed. Why don’t you go make the next shot?”

Tony opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again when his brain refuses to compute. Steve is looking at him like innocence incarnate, and Tony can’t handle this right now. He gets up to put distance between them before he does something regrettable, like asking if Steve is making an offer.

Hell, if Natasha and Clint weren’t here he probably would ask. He’d ask while standing between Steve’s legs, his hands sliding up the bracketing thighs as he leaned in close enough to whisper the words against Steve’s ear. All it would take is one word, one tiny nod, and he’d drag Steve over to the couch and drop down to his knees—

“You know what, I think I will,” he says quickly, “Shots, I mean. Make them. I’m going to go make shots that won’t give us alcohol poisoning after the first one.”

With that, he walks around the bar with set determination and grabs the can of whipped cream like his sanity depends on it.

Natasha laughs while Clint groans at the four perfectly lined-up Blow Jobs that he’s made, because if he has to work around the image of sucking Steve’s dick, so does everyone else, goddamnit.

 

***

 

The bar has very few people inside when Tony and Steve get there, but Tony is way too happy about having his choice of booth to complain. He gets to shove physical money and a fake ID at the staff, something he hasn't done since getting his first doctorate. It’s like being a teenager all over again, except with more stable hormones and the fact that he came with the person he wants to sleep with. Many times. In many positions.

Once they’ve settled into their booth, Steve watches people swarm into the building, the rush increasing as the time grows late. Tony sprawls beside him, delighting in the noise and the flow of drunken people on the dance floor until something in the far corner catches his eye. He tugs at the hem of Steve’s shirt and leans in to rub his cheek against Steve's, growing momentarily distracted with wondering what it would be like to feel that beard a bit further south.

It takes a moment for him to realize that he’s paused with one hand on Steve’s far hip, their chests angled towards each other and just shy of touching. Steve’s breath is hot against his neck, sparking heat that flushes through him, heady and intoxicating.

“What?” Steve asks, and there is a hand curling around Tony’s waist, bringing him even further into Steve’s space so that they can talk. Tony takes a second to wet his suddenly-dry lips.

“2 o’clock. Man in the back corner by the door. He’s here for something other than a good time, if you catch my drift.”

Tony tilts his head, letting Steve look over his shoulder and out across the crowd. The rough drag of Steve's beard once again on his overheated skin sets off a shiver that races down his spine until it's lost in the beat of the music. There's a desperate moment where he wonders if Steve has noticed, and he hastily draws back.

  
You think he came alone?” Steve asks, looking straight into his eyes, and that’s when Tony decides that he’s looking into the face of a cheater. A dirty rotten cheater who should not expect a coherent reply when he’s got his thumb under Tony’s shirt pressed against the bare skin above Tony’s waistband. Tony has to fight down the urge to call it quits, to pack up and leave when his mouth turns desert dry and his heart stutters in his chest.

Stark men are no quitters, though.

Scrambling to get himself under control, Tony shrugs, “I don’t see anyone with him. I’ll get JARVIS to run facial recognition if you want to get us more to drink.”

The drag of Steve’s fingers leaving his hip have an unbidden whimper rising in Tony’s throat, and there’s a wild moment where his body tries to follow Steve’s. It takes all of Tony’s self-control to sit back and smile lazily up at Steve instead of clinging like a spider monkey. Steve must read something on him because there’s a second of hesitation, but Tony waves him off and pulls out his phone to see what JARVIS can come up with.

Turns out sketchy corner guy is a bust: Jacob Smith, a first timer here who has been admitted to the hospital for a few overdoses and arrested multiple times for drug-dealing. Two hospital visits and one of the arrests coincide with the disappearances, giving him an airtight alibi. Tony leaves him alone for now and starts running through the IDs of current guests while getting JARVIS to cross-reference with past guests as well.

Tony looks up from pocketing his phone just as Steve is setting two cups down in front of him and their eyes catch. The happy little grin Steve has makes Tony want to reach out and touch; so much so that it takes a conscious effort to keep his hands distracted by fiddling with the napkin while Steve sits back down, until he realizes that he _can_. He’s allowed to touch. But it’s still all liquid courage that has him running his fingers over Steve’s beard and still further to tangle in the short blond hairs at the back of his neck.  

That Steve lets this happen, and in fact sinks into the touch instead of pulling away, is a major win in Tony’s book—and in his pants, but he’s going to have to take care of that later.

With one foot on the ground and the other curled under him, Tony raises himself high enough that he can press his thumb against the side of Steve’s mouth, silently asking permission to take this further with the simple touch. Every breath feels like a prayer when Steve tilts his head up and presses into Tony’s hand, the pounding of Tony’s heart a chorus of wishes never spoken out loud. Tony nips at Steve’s bottom lip to the gentle pressure of Steve touching the back of his thigh.

It takes a few seconds for Tony to gather himself, a half-formed thought asking if maybe he’s taking this too far. It’s quickly silenced behind the need to have this. For just one night he wants to pretend that Steve wants him this close. It’s too much of a siren’s song for Tony to be able to back away. Instead, he stays and whispers, “We’re still on the lookout. He’s not our guy.”

There’s heat in Steve’s eyes when Tony draws back. A fire that jumps from Steve and straight to the pit of Tony’s stomach. It’s everything he wants, everything he thought he couldn’t have, and it’s being promised in the air that moves between them.

At first, the buzzing in his pocket blends in with the vibration of the bass speakers and sharp sting of arousal dancing right under his skin. Then it starts to grow more insistent in a way that reminds Tony distinctly of a very annoyed JARVIS. It continues on until Tony realizes that it _is_ a very annoyed JARVIS.

“Shit. Shitshitshitshit,” he mutters, releasing the desperate clutch he has on Steve. For all the grief Steve gets for not being very covert, he takes Tony’s sudden attention shift in stride. He just hands over Tony’s drink so that it looks like they separated naturally to continue their evening. Tony takes the glass gratefully and sets his phone on the table so they can both see it, the screen dimmed enough to not draw attention.

Tony uses his pinky to scroll down, quickly reading the profile JARVIS has forwarded until he reaches the end. Gregory Michaels, 34 years old, rather boring all things said and done—until seven years ago when he was in a traffic accident. After that, he claimed he’d met God, who told him ‘go forth and bring His children to Him’. There were a few arrests for harassment, and then he had fallen off the official radar. JARVIS has compiled surveillance hints of Michaels meeting with a local cult leader.

“You think?” Steve asks, his steady presence curling in closer.

Tony glances at him, shrugs, and drains his glass. “If JARVIS is willing to bet on it, so am I.”

Steve seems to ponder this before he’s nodding and grinning in a way that immediately sets Tony on high alert. It’s Steve’s ‘I’m about to fuck things up’ grin. The grin that preludes dangerous ideas and follows in the footsteps of explosions. It’s the grin Tony lives for and dreads in equal measure.

“Send it in, we’re going to get closer.”

Tony rolls his eyes, but does it anyway. As a bonus he adds a strongly-worded message to Fury about wasting Avengers’ time for something that took him and JARVIS all of two seconds and half a brain cell to figure out. Feeling rather satisfied with himself, he locks his phone and slips it into a pocket before being dragged onto the dance floor.

He’s too old for this shit, Tony decides when he’s in the middle of a swarm of people who have no interest in maintaining any personal space. Too old to be pressed up against a guy straight out of his fantasies and blue-balling himself. Steve isn’t helping any: his hands are back at Tony’s hips and pulling him closer even as Tony tries to angle away.

All he manages to do instead is to get Steve’s leg between his thighs, his fingers tangled into Steve’s belt loops, and a hand cupping the back of his head. There’s an almost physical sensation of a switch being flipped that runs through him before Tony bares his teeth and grinds his hips against Steve’s.

“We doing this, Cap?” he breathes into Steve’s ear just over the music, stretching up so that more of their bodies are flush. A small jolt of pain comes in reply, traveling down his spine from where Steve’s fingers have tightened in his hair, and Tony groans.

Their rhythm stutters, and the way Steve freezes does all sorts of interesting things to the muscles of his stomach and chest. Tony has to let go of the belt loops in favour of running his hands all over them.

“I’ve never done this before,” Steve says dryly against his neck. “Dancing has… changed, and I wasn’t a big dancer even before this.”

Someone had clearly taken the time to tell him about the basics of dancing in the club with a partner, just had never gone through with the execution.

“You’re telling me that the guy who can spin like a rotisserie chicken in midair can’t move to music?” Tony teases, then lets the alcohol get the better of him. “Just pretend that you’re fucking me, Cap. Move with me. C’mon, you can feel the music, can’t you? Feel my hips? Just follow them, just relax and follow my lead.”

The sharp drag of beard burn is a bit of a shock when he’s on the receiving end, but Tony can’t bring himself to care—not when Steve is kissing him like a man drowning. _Desperate,_ is the word that comes to his mind. Desperate, like a man finding everything he’s ever wanted but who knew he could never hold on to it.

A hand palms his ass to pull him closer to Steve as the songs bleed together, leaving his thoughts momentarily derailed. At the same time it grounds him, bringing him back into the moment and the hot drag of Steve’s tongue against his own. It’s not enough to keep the hope from sparking against his sternum, but it is enough to fray the last of his self-control.

Making a snap decision, he pulls back, or tries to. Tony lets Steve chase him, goes back himself for a few shorter but no less filthy kisses. He does eventually draw the torn shreds of his restraint back together, just long enough for him to turn in Steve's arms and circle his hips back. The loss of Steve’s thigh between his legs makes his breath catch, makes him want to turn back around and jump so that Steve has no other option but to hold him up with Tony’s legs wrapped around him. And he would, Steve would catch him and could even keep him there one-handed while he used the other one to unzip his pants—

Tony’s thoughts break off under the branding of Steve’s fingers as they brush over his fly. The fingers don’t stay there for long; they curl around his thigh possessively while Steve’s thumb presses against him with each swivel of his hips. It’s a tease of friction, just enough to keep Tony grounded while coaxing punched-out whimpers from his throat.

Having Steve pressed up against him is heady in a way Tony can’t put into words. He can only lean back with his eyes closed and his fingertips catching on the outside seam of Steve’s jeans. His other hand trails down Steve’s arm until it finds the hand that’s not driving Tony to distraction, and guides it until he can sneak it under his shirt and against his stomach. He presses it there, letting Steve feel his abs work with each circle of their hips.

It takes a few seconds for Tony to realize something is off, for some primal nagging feeling to make him open his eyes and look around. It’s probably because Steve has stopped creeping his hand upwards towards Tony’s chest, but Steve isn’t allowed to take all of the credit.

They watch Gregory being escorted out by someone who looks suspiciously like Maria Hill in the flashing lights of the dance floor, still moving together, just absentmindedly.

“Mission complete,” Steve says with amusement. His hands haven’t moved, but they’re not as steady or demanding as they had been moments before. It’s almost like Steve isn’t sure of his welcome, but is loathe to leave.

Taking a deep breath, Tony steels himself and goes for broke. He reaches back until he can curl his fingers around the back of Steve’s neck and pulls him closer to purr, “Then it’s time to take me home, Cap.”

For a moment there’s a stillness that settles over them, and Tony’s breath catches in his throat. Fear washes over him—maybe he’s pushed too far or read into it too much. In just one second he’s managed to ruin one of his most important friendships. All because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“Thought you’d never ask,” Steve says, snapping Tony out of his panic. There’s a soft smile on his face when Tony turns to look up at him, a bit dumbfounded.

“I didn’t know it was an option,” Tony blurts out, while Steve gently turns him aaaand... okay, they’re walking. They’re walking, and Steve’s hand is pressed against his lower back in a way that’s more distracting than it should be.

“It is if you want it to be,” Steve murmurs into his ear as they snake through the crowd.

Tony’s brain short-circuits at the simple possibility that Steve’s _not messing with him_. That they’re really going back to the tower, where he can actually get Steve over him, or under him, maybe even just against him as they fuck against the wall.

The cool evening air hits him first. It isn’t clean or fresh by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s bracing after the muggy atmosphere inside the club, and Tony wants to laugh because they’re _military marching_ across the parking lot.

The second thing that hits him is the realization that they’re actually doing this, that Steve is practically herding him towards the beat-up rental car they’d taken here. Tony would be lying if he said he hadn’t imagined him and Steve in the backseat of a car once or twice. Maybe a few times, usually while he’s working on the Mercedes-Benz with a sight-line to the interior.

He’s been planning a checklist inspired by his Captain America posters ever since he hit puberty, and his sporadic additions over the years have multiplied exponentially since he met and moved in with the real deal. Who knew that super-strength could be so inspirational?

Once they’ve reached the car, he can hear Steve fishing out the keys from his pocket, and Tony can’t resist spinning around to draw Steve back into a kiss. The keys clatter down onto the ground, but Tony can’t bring himself to care because they’re walking backwards until his back hits the car door and Steve has his hands on Tony’s ass again.

Tony groans happily, arching his hips up, trying to get more friction. He needs a teleportation device, or something that can take them straight to the tower without Steve having to remove his tongue from Tony’s mouth. Steve isn’t averse to holding on to Tony in the suit, maybe Tony can summon it and they can fly back. That still won’t solve this kissing issue, but maybe if he—

Steve hoists him up, probably noticing Tony’s wandering thoughts, and leaves him with no choice but to wrap his legs snugly around Steve’s waist.

“I’ve spent way too much time planning this for you to wind up spending the night in your workshop,” Steve mouths against Tony’s neck.

Tony shivers, not even caring that Steve has set about giving him hickies high on his neck where he’s not going to be able to hide them tomorrow.

Then the words register.

“Planning? What? Steve. Planning?”

Steve freezes and tries to put him down, but Tony keeps him in a vice-like grip. There’s no way Tony is letting him run away that easily when he’s this close to getting what promises to be the best night of his life.

He’s assuming here; he has enough evidence to support Steve being focused, thorough, and possessing enough stamina that it makes Tony want to cry. Or beg. He wouldn’t be opposed to either in the right circumstances.

“I, um—” Steve begins, his eyes a bit wild and shifty. “I wasn’t sure how you’d react to a direct approach so I—”

“You made me an op,” Tony cuts in, amazement and amusement warring within him. “You created an operation within an operation. This was reconnaissance to see if you could get into my pants.”

Steve is looking more and more horrified by the second. “No! No, not to get into your pants. At least, not just to...”

Tony lets him trail off while all of the puzzle pieces come together. “Steve, did you do all of this because you want to _date me_?”

As Steve's head thunks down on his shoulder, Tony stares off towards the club in bewilderment. It takes a few moments for him to process that his body has started to shake, and he frowns until he realizes that it’s because Steve is… Steve laughing silently against him. Which makes Tony realize—

“If you’re having a mental breakdown, can you hold off until we get home? Or maybe tomorrow after we’ve had sex? Maybe even after some morning blow jobs? You won’t even get beard burn because I’ve shaved. I shaved for this. Oh my god, Steven Grant Rogers, did I have to shave because _you couldn’t ask me on a date like a normal person_?!”

  
  
  
  



End file.
